


The Heart of the Light Is a Cold Flame

by antumbral



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Gen, Midsummer, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year at Midsummer, Will travels to Bran's cottage in Wales to re-enact a ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of the Light Is a Cold Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashura/gifts).



It's their tradition now: every year, in the first week of June, Will visits a florist and hands over a list.

The shopgirl at this year's florist frowns, staring at the blocky script. "Alder, apple, birch, hazel, holly, oak, willow, yew? What is this?"

Will sighs and presses brown-grey hair back from his forehead, damp with the heat of London in the summer. "I only want a vase with a few twigs of each, alright? Nothing fancy, just make sure all the woods are there. If you can get blossoms on the flowering ones, that would be nice, but all I really need is the wood." He draws his card from a wallet and presses it to the counter, waiting.

She fingers the list, folds one corner down absently, then glances up at him with skepticism written large across her face. "Is this for a girlfriend? Because we've got some lovely orchid vases in just yesterday --."

"No, it's not for a girlfriend." Will drums bitten-down fingernails against the glass counter case, waiting. The shopgirl appears to be expecting some further explanation, but when it isn't forthcoming she punches a few worn buttons on the antiquated register and gives him a slip of paper with a price. He pays two extra pounds to have the whole lot shipped to Wales and considers it money well-spent.

*

On the day before Midsummer, Will takes the morning train from the heart of London out into the country, past neat houses, past dew-covered hedgerows with wild hares at their feet and sheep gnawing at their leaves, over shallow rivers on spindly trestle bridges, through a single tunnel and up into the mountains of Wales. Here, his summer tradition with Bran varies -- sometimes Bran will be waiting at the platform when the train pulls in, mud-crusted wellies on his feet and hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dusty work trousers. Sometimes Will arrives first, and then he waits on the platform steps until Bran's ancient green truck sputters its way up the track to the station. These times, after Will hoists his bag into the truck's bed and climbs up into the cab, Bran usually makes his apologies for whichever farm emergency has caused his tardiness -- a wayward lamb that needed to be found, new barn kittens that needed tending, "that bloody Carper boy, I swear if puts a hole in that fence _one more time_ \--".

This morning Bran is waiting for the train, scuffed black trousers and black t-shirt with a faded logo on the front and a collar stretched enough to show pale collarbones. The latest iteration of the sunglasses are perched firmly on his nose and his jaw is lined with scruff, white as his hair and eyebrows, giving his entire face a softly burnished look in the early afternoon sun.

"Oi, Will," he says as soon as Will steps out from the passenger car. "Over here," and soon they've both crossed the platform, embracing as they have every year since they were boys. Bran is still taller, Will still broader of build, but the years have frosted Will's temples and weathered Bran's pale skin with fine lines about his eyes and in the dimples of his cheeks.

"Good ride in, then?" says Bran, hoisting Will's bag to one shoulder.

"Same as always. Warmer this year than the last, thank all that's holy. I wasn't looking forward to tonight if the sky turned as miserable as last year." They fall into step side-by-side, Will's casual trainers and Bran's wellies plodding across the lot beside the platform to the truck.

The drive up into the mountains is as lovely as ever, made more so by the temperate sun glistening off the river below them in the valley until it disappears into the distance like a twisted silver ribbon against the far grey mountains. The golden-chain trees blossom in the hedges, with pink campion and pale jack-in-the-hedge peeking out from around the roots. When they turn off the main track onto the drive to Bran's house, the truck's tires rattle over the corrugations in the road worn out from decades of travel with no regrading.

Their arrival at the farmhouse is greeted enthusiastically by three sheepdogs, yipping and pawing their legs until a laughing Bran swats them away. After a late lunch of simple sandwiches, Will leans back in his chair and rests his hands atop his head. In the center of the table where they just ate sits the bouquet of sticks that Will had shipped to Wales the week previous, and Will is glad to see that the reluctant florist managed to find several apple branches in bloom, and a holly branch with several bunches of waxy red berries clustered among its leaves.

"Any plans for this afternoon?" Will asks.

"Not really." This too is tradition, and Will knows what Bran will suggest next. "Since we'll be out late tonight, I rather think I fancy a nap. I moved the sheep to the south orchard yesterday, so they can stay there for another while without me checking up."

"A nap, then," says Will happily, and they clean up the plates together, passing the dishes between themselves as Will washes and Bran dries. When their hands touch and Will smears suds over Bran's fingers, Bran retaliates by swiping them through Will's hair, so they shower before settling down on either side of Bran's double bed. There is a perfectly serviceable guest bed in the other room that Will uses to sleep at night, but having only been just reunited, they pass the afternoon in conversation while the warm sun lulls them gradually off to sleep.

*

That night, after a supper of rabbit stew and warm rolls, Bran fetches two flashlights from the barn while Will takes the branches from their vase and stows them in Bran's tattered old school backpack. Also into the backpack go two thermoses of hot tea, a box of matches pilfered from Bran's kitchen drawers, an old newspaper, and a bottle of quick-start lighter fluid for the bonfire. When Bran returns they pull on coats, because the night in the high places is windy and chill, even in the summertime. Will borrows an old one from Bran, and though they are different enough in build that the fabric tugs tight across his shoulders, Will finds the sheepdog-and-Bran smell of the worn flannel comforting. Each man takes a flashlight and together they set out on the trail towards Cader Idris. Only one of the dogs accompanies them: Cei, the eldest of the three.

The walk through the dark is quiet of conversation, but the night is clear and welcoming, alive with birds rustling in their nests, the sound of Cei's darting footfalls and snuffling, the crunch of their own boots across the rocky trail. They both know the way well enough now to avoid the pitfalls and high cliffs, steering carefully close to the mountain when their flashlights yawn off over the black depths of steep hillsides. The breath of the Brenin Llwyd swirls around them as they walk, wisping past the beam of their lights, but unlike the days of his boyhood when foreboding and a sense of inevitable, impending doom rose with the mists, this fog is benign, mere twists of cloud that stray into and out of their path without malice or portent. So it has been for so long that Will, while not precisely complacent, has at least become accustomed to the paradoxical ordinariness of this place where so much of the extraordinary took place.

The peak of Cader Idris is bare and chill when they arrive an hour later, and Will is grateful for the jacket's cocoon of warmth against the wind that batters the peak in fanged gusts. There is a ring of stones left from previous years' celebrations, and it is towards this inconsequential little monument that Will moves, kneeling as he begins to arrange the newspaper for the fire. Bran ranges out further along with Cei, picking up branches for logs and sticks for kindling.

By the time their fire is properly arranged and ready for lighting, Will can see another such fire already ablaze on a nearby hill. They are not the only ones who keep the old Midsummer rituals in the Tywyn valley, though they are the only two that keep them in quite this way. Bran sprinkles the lighter fluid over the wood and paper with a sharp tinkle. Cei huffs out a breath of canine disgust at the smell, and slinks away to watch from a safer distance. Will hands over the matches, then holds the matchbox while Bran strikes the spark. The paper catches almost instantly, burning briefly but bright enough to ignite the small branches which in turn ignite the larger logs.

"From small sparks, a bonfire," thinks Will, as their Midsummer fire crackles and sizzles its way into life.

"There we go," says Bran, satisfied, holding his hands out towards the fire for warming. "That's not a bad job. Much easier than last year, now that the wood's dry."

Will makes a noise of assent, distracted as he rummages through the backpack for the sticks he packed along. "Here then," he says, locating the bundle, "ready for the ritual?"

Together they crouch beside the fire, close enough that their shoulders touch and each can lean slightly on the other for balance. Will sorts through the twigs in his hand, reading their small paper labels by the light of the fire until he finds the one that he wants. A glance at Bran, and their yearly re-enactment begins.

" _On the day when the sun burns the longest and bright_ ," Will says, and though the words are not truly a spell, even as they leave his mouth he can see other fires spring awake on other mountains, three then six then nine.

Bran's hand reaches over his, and together they select the first sticks for the ritual, holding them out to the fire so that the tips of the branches catch and flame as they recite.

 _Silvery birch for Lady and Light  
Holly for hearth and happiest homes  
Hazel for healing in hands that are strong  
Willow for water, alder for flame  
Apple for neither beginning nor end  
Yew for memories kept and now gone,  
And last, oak for Britain, that she carry on._

As each twig flames, smoulders, and is cast into the fire, Will can see as if looking at the reflection on a window pane not just this fire, hear not just these words, but fires and words said on this night in years to come. They rise up around the small center of himself and Bran -- enormous bonfires and small private celebrations, dancers whirling furiously and elderly women bending on arthritic knees, the sound of thousands of voices at the same time loud as a roar and quiet as the wind that buffets their little fire atop Cader Idris -- the sounds of Midsummer fires for years and years on, keeping alive the memory of the Light, even if only Will knows the real significance of the rhyme.

As they finish the poem together, Will looks up and meets Bran's eyes, there in the center of the fires of the future. Their single present fire glitters in his white hair and the stubble of his white beard, and if the afternoon sun had left him looking burnished, the bonfire leaves him radiant, a glowing echo of his once-glowing father that brings an ache to Will's heart so sharp and wild that he cannot help but snatch in a breath to keep himself from bowing to Bran as Pendragon once more.

Bran hears and lifts his head, curious. Now that Will can see it, the bonfire reflected in Bran's tawny eyes twists the ache deeper, and Will falters out a smile that he fears will fool Bran not one bit. Their hands are still touching, clutched around the oak sticks, but something of his face must convince Bran to forbear questions, because he simply tosses the sticks into the fire with the other woods and pushes himself up to stand. Will watches him from the crouch still, feeling the rightness of their positions; for a fleeting, greedy moment the two of them are once more the shining king and the Old One.

"Well, that's another year done in," Bran says happily, and the spell falls apart. They are Will and Bran, standing on a rocky mountain in old wellies with a sheepdog licking the back of Will's neck and hands that are beginning to turn numb from the wind.

"Yes," says Will.

"Best be getting back then," says Bran. "I'll take some of that tea you packed for the walk home, I think. Funny how the fire doesn't even seem to heat you, up that high on the mountain."

Will says nothing, but passes his friend a thermos of tea and turns his flashlight back on, following Bran's lead down the trail towards the cottage. When he looks behind him, he can still see the ghosts of fires yet to come atop the mountain.

 _At the heart of the Light is a cold flame_ , Will thinks, and despite the miracles that he has seen and the battles he has won, at no time past or present have the words ever seemed more true.


End file.
